


Sleep at Dawn

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't sleep at night. Night isn't safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Sherlock BBC promptingmeme ages ago: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=39436491#t39436491

It isn’t until the first weak sunbeams penetrate the window, forcing their way into Sherlock’s bedroom, that he’s able to let his eyes close and surrender to sleep.

Night isn’t safe. It isn’t logical, by any ordinary standards, to be nocturnal. From a purely biological perspective, the human body’s circadian rhythms are supposed to be twenty-four hour cycles. Awake during the day, in the light. Asleep at night, in the dark. It makes perfect sense to follow biological imperative, except that Sherlock can’t sleep in the dark.

Mycroft works all day. Eight to five, at least five days a week, Monday through Friday, sometimes Saturday or even Sunday as well. Sunrise means Mycroft has to wake up, brush his teeth, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and climb into his chauffeured black car. No time to waste on Sherlock. No risk. Mycroft doesn’t have any time until after work and dinner, when the sun is sinking beneath the west horizon.

Most nights, Sherlock remains awake and utterly, thankfully alone. Still, two or three nights a month, there’s the briefest click of a key in the lock and the door to his apartment swings open. Changing the locks would be pointless; it would provide Mycroft with nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Mycroft doesn’t respond well to inconveniences, no matter how small.

A more regular _visitation_ schedule would fit Mycroft’s tastes better, as regimented and orderly as he is, but it would also give Sherlock the advantage of knowing when to expect it. Thus, Mycroft is loathe to do anything predictable.

_You’ve missed me, haven’t you? No one else visits you, after all._

More often than not, this unfortunate schedule keeps Sherlock from getting much sleep at all. Scotland Yard does most of their work during the day, and Sherlock rarely refuses an opportunity to consult with them; he desperately needs something to get his mind off of Mycroft. Occasionally he gets independent cases as well, just enough to pay the bills, but more so to help occupy his brain. He’s never needed much sleep, but now he’s learned to get by on three or four hours a day, sometimes catching up with six or eight hours on a lazy weekend. It used to be ten or twelve extra hours on the weekends, but since he woke up at 4:09pm one Sunday afternoon to find Mycroft waiting for him, he hasn’t been able to sleep in much.

_Don’t pull away like that. I’m rather sick of you acting coy._

The drugs provide a distraction, but a fleeting one at best. Anything to pull him away, to help him concentrate on puzzles and clues and tamable mysteries. Things that can be tackled and understood, conquered and dismissed. Anything as long as it’s about the here and now, or else about someone else’s past. Something else’s history. Where those shoes have been, whose hands that watch has passed through, how those marks ended up on that door.

You’re brilliant but utterly socially clueless, aren’t you? What a shame; none of them will appreciate you for what you are, though I can’t really blame them. You make it so difficult.

He doesn’t want to think about his own past or future. The past is bad; the future is worse.

_Look at you. You can’t control yourself at all. Give in to it already; stop lying to yourself._

One day, the cases won’t be enough. One day, he’ll be pushed too far. One day, when he’s lying on his bed with blood and sweat and spit and semen running down his bruised thighs, he’ll pull out of his stupor when Mycroft leaves. He’ll grab his syringe and shoot up an extra dose. Too much. Enough to make everything go black. Safety in darkness for the first and last time. A new pain, a beloved new pain that will swallow up every mark his brother has ever left on him and snuff Sherlock’s life in a matter of minutes.

_Go where? To the hospital? To the police? Do you know anything about my level of influence in this city, Sherlock? You poor, delirious, drug-addled thing, to be so confused as to be blaming your own brother, the only person who has stuck by your side through all the years, blaming me for injuries clearly inflicted upon you by your drug dealer? Or perhaps a prostitute? The details will line up any way I want them to; you know that._

Sherlock never masturbates any more. The last time he tried, some six months past, his mind assaulted him with memories too vivid to banish. So many details. The smell of designer cologne under a slightly damp suit, dusted with rain from the storm outside. The cold, unyielding clench of handcuffs fastened around his wrists. The decrease in mobility as the handcuffs were tied to the bed. The taste and texture of new rubber, shoved into his mouth, with the stiff leather straps being tied around his head. The sound of clothing ripping. The sound of clothing being neatly, carefully removed. The smell of cologne and sweat and masculine lust. The feel of a large, sweaty hand wrapped around his prick...

_You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You get hard for me so quickly, Sherlock. Shhh, don’t want the neighbors to hear. Just be patient and you’ll get what you want._

~~~

John assumes he’s asexual. Sherlock knows why. Sherlock also knows John’s interested, but doesn’t make a move. Making a move would lead to a relationship, which would interfere with Sherlock’s work; he needs his work to survive. Perhaps more importantly, making a move would be an invitation for physical touch. Sherlock was cynical enough to know that meant, if not initially then eventually, a great deal of activities with which he had solely negative association. No point in trying. Trying would only disappoint John and scar Sherlock’s own already-mangled psyche even further.

_You can’t even have a healthy relationship, can you? Your flatmate’s interested in you, but you don’t return his interest at all. You’re too loyal to me; you don’t want anyone else._


End file.
